


along the way

by saekhwa



Series: When I Think of Home [1]
Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Character(s), Established Relationship, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Movie(s), Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/saekhwa
Summary: This is one of those bad days.





	along the way

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so! If you are in this series for the cute, domestic everything-is-wonderful-and-nothing-hurts, then just skip this part.
> 
> A million, million thanks to Moriavis for the beta! 
> 
> Written for [Poetry Fiction's July prompts challenge](http://poetry-fiction-challenge.tumblr.com/tagged/july-mini-prompts):
> 
>  _"A bell tolls. The past fades further."_ — Hồ Xuân Hương

Rick opened his eyes, his heart beating so fast it felt like it was in his throat, choking off the breath he needed to relieve the pressure on top of his chest. He clawed at the weight as he stared up at the ceiling, at the things crawling in from the corners of his vision. Date, time, name, where he was, where he'd been, what he'd done — none of it was rising to the surface fast enough. 

It got worse when beside him, something large and unknown shifted. When it brushed his arm, his breath hitched, raspy and tight. Floyd, he kept telling himself. It was Floyd, goddamn it. But the remnants of his nightmare clung fierce and the sidearm he blindly reached for wasn't where he needed it. 

If he didn't move his ass, they were all gonna die.

He rolled out of bed, a haphazard fall that had him crab-walking toward the door 'til he raised a shaky hand to the knob, twisted, and tumbled free. The, "Rick," he heard behind him couldn't've been real. 

It was too damn dark in the hallway to boot. He had to count the steps it took to reach the bathroom just to make sure he wasn't still in the dream, where something he couldn't remember had stretched on into oblivion. 

He fumbled for the switch, and light flooded the room before he was ready. But the starburst pattern, even the wince against the glare, helped him let go of the breath he'd been clutching in his chest. The cold water running over his hands helped get rid of the rest, and he wished he could remember what the hell had shaken him so badly in the dream. 

He splashed his face and decided that he needed to brush his teeth to get rid of the sour, bile taste in his mouth. The routine of it — steady, circular motions — and the minty taste of the toothpaste helped ground him. And since he was up and it felt close enough to morning, a shave made sense. A mistake that made itself clear when his grip slipped and he nicked himself. 

"Fuck," he hissed, razor clattering to the sink. 

All he needed was one square of toilet paper, but what he got was an unraveling fistful. 

He mashed it to the side of his face, spinning around at the sound of Floyd's sleepy, "Yo, man, you okay?"

Rick's breath seized at how quickly Floyd closed the distance between them. A part of him was grateful but another part of him, that cold edge lingering from the dream, reared back at the press of Floyd's warm fingers at his throat, at the pressure of Floyd's thumb tilting his head up and to the left. Whatever Floyd saw or decided, he just shook his head and broke the chain of toilet paper, tossing the long tail of it in the toilet. 

Without Floyd's hand anchoring him, Rick sagged against the sink, tearing off everything but the square he'd needed and throwing the rest in the toilet before it had finished flushing. 

"It's late," Floyd said. 

Rick beat him to the punch. "Yeah. You should head back to bed."

Floyd frowned, staring from Rick to the sink and back again, eye contact steady as he picked up the razor and set it on the counter. "You sure you're all right?"

One nod. That was all it took for Floyd to trust him and shuffle down the hall, heading back to bed. 

Rick's mouth tasted sour, even though he'd just brushed his teeth. He stared at himself in the mirror, facing a glare he'd fixed on many a soldier while giving them the only pep talk they ever needed. 

"Get your shit together."

It helped, but not enough when he headed to the living room and stiffened at the way the shadows shifted in the corner of the room. A rustle that sounded out of place, and he was at the window, peering out onto an empty, quiet street. Still seemed prudent to check the doors and windows. He only stopped himself short when he reached Zoe's room, and across from it, the one he shared with Floyd. If he went in, Floyd would start to worry and there was nothin' for him to worry about. 

Rick turned on his heels and checked the doors and windows again, just to be sure he hadn't been sleepwalking his way through it the first time. 

~*~

When Floyd woke up, Rick was bleary-eyed, chugging his second cup of coffee. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Floyd asked, dropping onto the couch next to him. 

Rick answered with a shrug, staring hard at the backwash swimming around at the bottom of the mug. He could feel Floyd's stare but couldn't face it head on. That tension — ready for something to break — meant Rick flinched when Floyd shifted toward him. 

Floyd immediately leaned back, but Rick curled a hand around his thigh to stop him from getting too far. 

"What's going on?" Floyd asked. 

Rick shook his head, but the mug proved a better save, so he held it up and said, "Too much of this probably."

Floyd relaxed, leaning in again, and his grin made it easier to get that quick good morning kiss Rick had halted with his skittishness. 

From there, the rest of the morning was the routine of making Floyd and Zoe breakfast, of turning halfway and laying an arm across Zoe's shoulder when she finally marched in for her hug. She watched him chop the onion, and he shifted to give her a better view of all the fillings he'd pulled out for the omelettes he was going to make 'em. 

"No onions for me," she said. 

Rick grinned. "No onions, got it. Bell peppers and ham okay?"

Zoe took a second, like she had to think long and hard about it, but then she nodded. "And cheese."

Floyd snorted. "He white, Zoe. He's not gonna forget the cheese."

Rick huffed a short laugh and continued chopping, Floyd's and Zoe's conversation turning to white noise. Everything routine. Everything in its place. 

So there was no clear-cut answer for how the knife slipped, slicing damn near halfway through Rick's finger. 

"Goddamn, son of a _bitch_ ," fell out of his mouth faster than the knife clattered to the cutting board. It bounced and almost got his foot. He jumped back to avoid it only for it to skid across the floor, determined to get more blood out of him. His retreat took him straight to the wall, hip clipping the sharp corner of the counter. "Fuck!"

He kicked the cabinet with another heated _fuck_ and was about to kick it a second time to help ease the bright shock of pain that still had a firm hold on his hand and hip, but Floyd was out of his chair and coming in fast. It was the sudden movement in Rick's periphery that had him spinning around to face down the threat, grateful he at least had the wall at his back. But it wasn't a threat. It was Floyd. It was _Floyd_. 

Floyd, who froze, fists balled, body blocking Zoe, who was poking her head out, eyes so wide that Rick knew he'd fucked up. 

The biggest goddamn rule Floyd had: don't lose it in front of the kid. And here Rick was, bleeding, heart racing from more than just caffeine while Floyd advanced like he was going to kick Rick's ass right out of the house. 

Floyd snatched the kitchen towel hanging from the oven door and held it under Rick's hand with a tight, "Come on," grabbing Rick by his elbow. 

"Should I call an ambulance?" Zoe asked. 

They both said, "No," clipped, short, Floyd's fingers digging hard into the bone at Rick's elbow. 

"Read your book," Floyd said. "Watch some TV. We're not gonna be long."

He steered Rick straight to the bathroom. The second the door sealed them inside, Floyd let Rick go with a shove toward the sink. 

"What's going on and don't bullshit me."

Fair question. Rick deserved Floyd's narrow stare and the stiff line of Floyd's shoulders, but Rick's mouth didn't want to get with the fucking program. 

"I almost lost a finger," he said. "Get off my ass." He turned his back to Floyd, twisting the faucet for the cold water. 

"That's how you wanna do this? Really, man?"

Rick hunched over the sink, jaw clenched as he watched the water pour over his finger, the swirl of his blood going down the sink a goddamn metaphor for his life. 

"Fine," Floyd said. 

And fuck if Rick's chest didn't squeeze against that one word. It was as sure a goodbye as any, and Rick couldn't even say that three months had been a record. Here they were, with their happy ending, and Rick still held himself tight against a storm. It was that damn nightmare, the one he couldn't remember but had made everything feel ass backwards the second he'd opened his eyes. 

"You gonna need stitches?" Floyd asked. 

Rick gave a short, jerky shake of his head. 

He expected Floyd to leave, but hearing the door click shut still made his muscles tense. He almost kicked the cabinet again, all the violence tightening in his shoulder, rarin' for a punch. 

This wasn't getting his shit together. 

"Fuck," he whispered, repeating it 'til his eyes stopped stinging. 

With a deep breath, he shoved himself away from the sink. He used superglue to seal up his finger and wrapped it up in some gauze. 

~*~

After he cleaned up the kitchen, he drifted from room to room, checking the windows and doors again 'til he had the balls to march into the bedroom and throw open the closet doors. Bug-out bags were still at the bottom — his and Floyd's and the one they kept for Zoe in case shit went down while she was visiting. He'd never met a kid who'd so calmly accepted their exit plan with nothing more than a nod and an okay. She'd even hugged 'em both after they'd made her walk through a couple of escape routes. 

Rick sagged against the door, eyes squeezed shut. The bug-out bags meant Floyd was coming back. 

This time, Rick reminded himself. This time, Floyd was coming back. 

Rick had fucked up and he had to make this right before Floyd decided not to. 

~*~

First part of the plan of actually getting his shit together, Rick took a nap. The coffee had only amped up his heart rate, and everything felt too damn bright and sharp. And he knew that if he injured himself again, he was going to fucking lose it worse than before. 

He snatched a restless two hours, jerking awake at the sound of cars driving by and doors slamming shut and Roscoe's goddamn dog losing his shit at some imaginary threat. 

Rick still felt better than he had earlier if only 'cause he hadn't been pulled into another nightmare. 

He made sandwiches for lunch but wasn't surprised when noon ticked over to one o'clock ticked over to two with no sign of Floyd and Zoe. Rick ate one of the sandwiches and wrapped the rest, putting it in the fridge as lunch for Zoe or a late-night snack for himself. 

Knowing that sitting and waiting wasn't going to do a damn thing to help, he started cleaning the house. Vacuuming, mopping, wiping down the windows, and scrubbing at the baseboards gave him something to do that required a plan of action, a steady hand, focus, and concentration. 

By the end of it, he was gritty and sweating and his hand throbbed like a son of a bitch. After his shower, he took another look at his finger. Didn't seem so bad anymore, so he wrapped fresh gauze around it and dozed on the couch 'til the sound of a door jerked him awake. Shit. Front door, not car door. 

He scrubbed a hand down his face and stood as Floyd locked the door. Which meant he'd taken Zoe back home to her mom. 

"Is Zoe okay?" Rick asked.

"She thinks you're going to die from an infection, but she's fine." 

Floyd finally looked at Rick, but Rick could only blow out a breath. 

"Shit." Rick took a step but stopped. "Floyd."

"Okay. Okay, you know what?" Floyd held up his hands. "While you're trying to figure out what you're going to say, and man, it had better be damn good _and_ include an apology. I'm just gonna go ahead and say what I gotta say." He fixed Rick with a narrow stare. "You got shit to work through. I do, too." He shrugged, but then he frowned, expression turning to flint. "What you're not gonna do is lie. To my face. Don't tell me you're fine when you're not 'cause this." He gestured between them. "Is not cool."

Rick waited 'til he was sure Floyd wasn't going to say more. "I know," he said, and exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "I know." He stopped, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and fell to the couch. 

"So what the hell is going on?"

"I don't—" Rick's head shot up. He didn't expect Floyd to sit on the couch with him, much less close enough for Floyd to lay an arm across the couch behind him, thigh warm and firm against Rick's. "I don't fucking know. Had a dream. Woke up…" He sucked in a breath through his nose that burned. "Thought we were gonna die."

There was a long pause, where Rick couldn't quite breathe. Felt like the nightmare was creeping back in. 

So Floyd's nonchalant, "We might," was unexpected. 

Rick laughed. It felt good to let out that air, to suck it back in as he stared at Floyd, grinning. 

"Yeah," Rick agreed. "You're right. We might."

"Exactly."

It felt like permission, so he slung his arm around Floyd and drew him in, relaxing when Floyd shifted to get his arms around Rick's waist. Rick never thought a hug would be a source of comfort, but he knew they both had Zoe to thank for that with all the random, weird fun facts she liked to share. 

It was one-hundred percent why Rick murmured, "I'm sorry," against Floyd's shoulder. That and Floyd had made it pretty clear it was required, and Rick knew that if this was gonna work between 'em, he needed to say it. 

"Then don't pull this shit again," Floyd said. 

Rick could only nod. He squeezed Floyd that little bit more tightly, too. 

They sat there a good long while, holding each other. Rick's breaths matched the steady pace of Floyd's until everything finally sunk down and away, leaving behind two fucked up men in a sorry-ass world who loved each other. 

They might still die, and Rick really had thought he'd come to terms with that. Mission after mission after mission, they'd come so close to it that… But they'd survived a hell of a lot. Rick couldn't forget that. 

Floyd pulled away first, moving faster than Rick was expecting. He bumped Rick's hand, and Rick hissed, jerking back, cradling it to his chest on instinct.

"You sure your ass don't need stitches?" Floyd asked. 

"Probably do," Rick admitted. "But I'll worry about it tomorrow. Rather stay home on the couch with you."

Floyd snorted. "Okay, but I'm picking the movie." 

Rick grinned and got the remote, handing it off. Floyd, clearly more cautious of Rick's hand, gently tugged him back into place on the couch, so they were shoulder to shoulder. And they stayed that way, solid and warm, through the evening.


End file.
